Page 56 of Highland Crown
He felt Isabella’s eyes on him, and when he looked up at the window, he caught a glimpse of her. Even though he’d stressed the safety of the house and the value ofSearc’s protection, he still worried about her. He’d convinced Searc that she was his wife, but these men outside knew the truth.
Two tall figures melted into the shadows of a ruined malt house that had been deserted since he was a boy. He passed them without a glance and continued up the lane to the corner. It was somewhat troubling that Searc, with a gang of ruffians at his disposal, didn’t mind their presence. Cinaed hadn’t mentioned it this morning. He wanted no attention brought to them until he had a chance to learn who they worked for and what they wanted.
The road that ran in front of Searc’s house bustled with traffic. Carts and wagons loaded high with barrels and crates were making their way in the direction of the harbor or back toward the center of Inverness. A flock of sheep was being driven to town, and a ragged family, carrying all their worldly possessions, circled wearily around the animals. One of the children, a scruffy lad with a dirty face, pulled a small but resistant yellow dog along by a cord. They were trudging in the direction of the pier. Like so many other Highland families, they no doubt hoped to find a ship that would carry them across the sea. The desperation in their faces and the life they’d lost was caused by the clearances, and it angered Cinaed. He knew their homes had already been destroyed. They had nothing but a long bleak road before them. Pulling a gold sovereign from his pocket, he handed it to the lad as they passed. It was all he could do for them. For now.
A tall man in a battered wide-brimmed hat, leaning against an abandoned cart and eating an apple, watched him. Across the road, two more fellows sat on a low wall. They could have been just passing the time. Onewas absently whittling a stick, but Cinaed knew their attention never strayed from him.
As he approached, the Highlander by the cart straightened and tossed his apple away. He was dressed in a coat and pants of worn brown wool and a dark green waistcoat. His boots indicated he was no simple farmer, but rather a horseman. And the marked face and flattened nose showed evidence of more than a few rows.
They were approximately the same height and build. He guessed the other man might be a few years older than him, but no more. The Highlander wore a long hunting knife at his belt, and without doubt had at least one sgian dubh tucked into his boots. The riders who came to their rescue on the coach road had been heavily armed with muskets and pistols. If these were indeed the same men, they weren’t foolish enough to carry outlawed weapons on the street.
The Highlander touched the brim of his hat. His hand didn’t move an inch in the direction of the knife at his belt. He wore the comfortable demeanor of a person who’d been waiting for an old companion.
“Who are you?” Cinaed had no time for pleasantries or pretense.
“Blair Mackintosh.”
The quick answer and the name took him by surprise, but there were Mackintosh families spread across the Highlands. “Where from?”
“Dalmigavie, Cinaed.”
The years were raindrops disappearing in the grass. He knew he had changed, and the same would be true for others who grew up at Dalmigavie. He didn’t recall anyone with the name Blair, but he didn’t remembermany things from those days. Still, he could easily be kin to this man. The realization was bittersweet, and at the same time clarified a great deal. It made sense now that Searc would have no objection to members of his own clan loitering about the streets surrounding his house. But did this mean that whatever information they had, Searc also knew?
“Did you approach my wife’s traveling companion on market day, Blair Mackintosh?”
He used the word “wife” deliberately, hoping he’d be telling these people something they were not aware of, or confirming what they’d heard.
“Aye, that I did. Me and the lads here thought the auld woman and the doctor would want to hear news of their loved ones.”
His casual reference to Isabella as “the doctor” was unsettling, but Cinaed’s priority right now was to find out more of what they knew.
“Have you heard anything more about John Gordon?”
“That brave lad’s had a wee bit more attention than any of us would be wanting.” Blair spat in the dirt. “But he’s not told them anything, so far as we know. We hear they’re moving him soon.”
“When?”
“Can’t say, as yet. But then again, the weavers upriver have more reliable ears in Fort George than we do. Tonight, when ye see them, ye can ask what the day of the strike is. That’ll be the day Gordon is transferred. They’re thinking a dozen soldiers sent off to escort a prisoner will be a dozen less sent to town to break up their strike. And that means a handful less folk’ll be trampled and killed.”
What he said about the day of strikes made sense. The weavers had already asked for protection from Searc. They knew what had happened with every strike in the towns and cities south of here. They were trying to eliminate bloodshed, if possible.
Cinaed focused on what Blair said about the dinner. He even knew who’d been invited tonight. Then again, there were other Mackintosh men who worked inside the house, and all these people had to talk.
“And the girls, my wife’s family?”
“We moved them, just to be safe, in case John Gordon couldn’t hold fast under questioning.”
“Where are they now?”
“Dalmigavie Castle. The lasses are houseguests of the laird.”
Lachlan. Cinaed felt the hackles on his neck rise. His uncle’s actions were commendable, but why was he going to such lengths? He hated to think he would ever owe him anything.
His men showing up the day of the attack by British soldiers. Taking Isabella’s family into the mountains. They must have found out where the girls were from the folk at Stoneyfield House. That was what Isabella had wanted to do that day, but they’d had no time.
Lachlan’s letter to him had been an invitation, but the steps he’d taken since made it seem much more serious. Cinaed didn’t know what his uncle wanted. The thought occurred to him that perhaps the old gargoyle was feeling a bit burdened with guilt in his advancing years. Maybe he was dying.
“Why is Lachlan doing this?”
